No Right Answer
by EEevee
Summary: [Black Jack] [Challenge Fic] Blackjack faces a difficult decision as a doctor and as a human being. Note:contains hot political issues about assisted suicide


Title: No Right Answer

Author: Eeevee

Genre/Rating: General/ PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Challenge fic: "Gekkouka" BlackJack OP song. Song #11 out of 13.

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"I have heard from your family, but do you want me to operate?"

She calmly put her teacup down and answered him bluntly, "It doesn't matter to me. I'm going to die anyway. Don't even try; so then you won't feel like a failure when I die."

"Now why would you say such a terrible thing?" Her grandmother scolded, looking shocked.

"Because, the truth is a terrible thing."

Black Jack eyed the two warily. This certainly seemed like the usual hopeless case that he was called in to take, however, something about it made him pause. Master surgeon he was, but normally his patients wanted desperately to live. It was that fighting spirit that made his gambles successful.

"Will you make my granddaughter better?" The older lady asked, wringing her hands, slightly beseeching. "I heard you were the best. Those other doctors… they were useless."

The granddaughter snorted, "All doctors are useless. But not nearly as useless as family that won't pay attention to you when you say you're sick and in pain."

"It's your crazy mother!"

The girl snapped, "Don't you blame my mother. Isn't it enough you locked her up? Be a grown-up and take responsibility for your own mistakes."

Black Jack was used to the drama, the begging, and the pleading, but somehow he wasn't expecting such a bitter fight in the middle of his living room. He glanced at the medical folder again, flipping through the pages slowly. The folder was fairly thin for such a serious case, showing negligence for such sever symptoms. It was no wonder the cancer had spread so far without anyone noticing.

The first few diagnostics were rather dull. One doctor said that it was a simple bout of depression and prescribed drugs. Black Jack frowned at such haphazard diagnosing. Anti-depressants generally have very mild side effects, but it seemed the girl's body had an extreme reaction to the extra serotonin. She ended up in the emergency room with constricted airways and blindness after only the second dose. That right there should have given doctors a clue that it wasn't depression.

Next there were x-rays for TMJ and sinus infections. Neither showed anything, but there were two operations anyway. Neither helped.

Then there were the scans of her head. He could see how an inexperienced doctor could miss the tumor on the first CT scan, but the second…?

It made no difference now. The tumor had been left unchecked for almost half a year. It was slowly crushing her frontal lobe. Removing it was impossible for most surgeons. In fact, despite how confident he was in his skills, even he was leery about attempting to separate the mass that had fused with delicate brain tissue.

Even if she did survive, the side effects would be devastating to the honor student.

"Mister Black Jack," She leaned forward over her teacup. He could see the pain clouding her eyes, but he didn't ask if she had a migraine or if she had taken any medication for the pain. "Honestly, would there be a life for me after surgery? Would I be able to finish school, hold a career, get married, and start a family? Or would I be some babbling idiot that couldn't even remember my dog's name? The dog I've had for thirteen years, since I was six years old.

Say my family pays you oodles of money to let me live, then what? How much will they have to pay for my recovery? Will there be morphine drips and wheelchairs? Assisted living when I become too much of a burden? Sir, my brother and sister could be put through college with that money."

Her eyes seemed a bit clearer now, although her expression hadn't changed in the slightest.

"So tell me, Mister Black Jack, Doctor Black Jack, what is my prognosis? Will I slip into a dreamland of never ending sleep while my body rots away in a bed, or will I slip into a dreamland of never ending sleep while my body rots away in the ground? Is it worth your good name to work on me? I want to know what you think. You, the person, not you, the doctor."

He stared at her, considering. Black Jack wasn't overly chatty, he left that to his little "wife" as she liked to call herself, but he usually had no difficulty speaking up. Somehow, confronted by such heated questions, he wasn't sure what to believe.

As a doctor, he had sworn to cherish and protect life.

Yet this patient was baiting and taunting him with the ultimate failure: death.

Reputations could tarnish but they could also be restored. Bodies were not so forgiving. If he were to act, it would have to be within the next forty-eight, preferably twenty-four hours. Beyond that there wasn't even the slimmest chance she would survive such invasive surgery.

"Are you asking for assisted suicide?" He replied mildly.

The grandmother's eyes widened so much he hoped she didn't have contacts in them. Bursting a blood vessel in the eye was rather unsightly and slightly painful.

The girl's expression flashed from solid resolution to a flicker of doubt to a mask of cynicism. Apparently she wasn't as fearless about death as she pretended. He was beginning to see how she could have played down extremely painful and debilitating headaches for a long period of time.

"I never said that."

"But you implied it."

She leaned back, "I wouldn't want you to dirty your hands. There's plenty of ways for me to kill myself."

"Oh really."

She nodded seriously. He could see her fierce need for independence. It was, in a way, like that independence he possessed. He could only assume it was a similar stubborn streak to survive and do alone that only those who faced death could master. There was loneliness and bitterness in her strength. It seemed they had both grown up without parents to coddle and guide them. But that was where the likeness ended.

She was like a veteran who had seen too many battles. Being an experienced soldier, she knew a losing campaign when she saw one, and she accepted it. She was young but not stupid, pessimistic yet still pragmatic.

"I see."

He wavered at the choice set before him.

"You can find anything on the internet."

"So you don't really need my help."

"No, no I don't think so."

Black Jack silently turned his back and wrote on a piece of paper. He handed it to the girl. She took it without looking and tucked it in a pocket away from her Grandmother's prying eyes.

"Sorry for taking up your time." The girl nodded politely and got up to show herself out. The grandmother trailed after her anxiously, casting pleading looks at him as if he was suddenly going to spout out some flowering, ever-hopeful speech to sway the girl. When he made no move to bar the door with his body, she skittered after her granddaughter.

Suddenly, he needed a hot shower. Scalding at the least. It would burn his skin and wash away the dirt, but the tar of his sin would remain. And he decided that he would hold it close to his heart, as a reminder. If he kept it just far enough, then the stain wouldn't set.

Or so he told himself.

Beta:  
Wow… I see where that story stemmed from. You need someone like House and not BJ. Few errors, but I corrected them. It was great.


End file.
